ACT 0: Roger the Prisoner
by Galaxy1001D
Summary: Before he met R Dorothy Wayneright, Roger Smith resigned from Paradigm City's military police and found himself a prisoner of a sinister community calling itself the Union. CHAPTER FOUR HAS BEEN ALTERED TO FIT IN WITH EVENTS FROM THE BIG O: SEASON THREE.
1. Arrival

_The Big O_ _and all of its settings and characters are owned by Cartoon Network, Sunrise, and Bandai Visual._

 _The Prisoner_ _and all its settings, characters and dialogue are owned by_ _Everyman Films and ITC._

 _Additional material by Alain Carraze, David Ladyman, George Markstein, Patrick McGoohan, Helene Ozwald, and David Tomblin._

In a sea of red hot molten metal a metallic face emerges. " _Cast in the Name of God. Ye not guilty."_

THE BIG O:

Thunder boomed through the cloudy sky as a determined man in a black suit drove his long black sedan at top speed down an empty highway, then into a city where huge geodesic domes cover mid-20th century buildings and into an underground parking lot. Entering a building via a set of double doors titled "Way Out" he then strode down a long, narrow corridor leading to another set of double doors, pulling them open with great ferocity. The raven haired man was tall, young, and handsome wearing black slacks, black shoes, a black tie bisected by a gray stripe, and a crisp white shirt covered by a black polo jacket.

The man mounted a fierce argument before a man in a beige military uniform who was identified by a sign on his desk as Major D Dastun. The man in black delivered an envelope marked 'Private—Personal — By Hand', and slammed his fist on to the desk, smashing the saucer of a cup of coffee. The angry man left and drove home, not realizing that he was being followed by a hearse, with the license TLH 858.

Meanwhile, in an unknown location full of filing cabinets, an automated system typed a series of large X's across the man's photograph and dropped it into a drawer marked "RESIGNED".

At the man's apartment, he quickly packed his possessions. Outside, the hearse pulled up and a man dressed like an undertaker approached the front door. As a white gas flooded the room through the keyhole, the tall modern buildings outside his window danced before his eyes. He collapsed on his bed and fell unconscious.

When he woke up, he looked around in confusion. What had happened? He glanced around his room. Nothing was taken, but the window blinds were closed. When he passed out, they were open. To his astonishment, when he lifted the blinds, a totally unfamiliar scene greeted his eyes: A green and pleasant village square surrounded by tall trees and curiously colored baroque buildings.

ACT 0

ROGER THE PRISONER

 _Chapter One: Arrival_

 _My name is Roger Smith. For as long as I can remember I've lived in Paradigm City, a city without memory. Over thirty years ago every man and woman lost all memory of what went on before. But memories are like nightmares. They can appear anytime you least expect them._

 _For as long as I can remember Paradigm City was only city in the world (if you ignore a few hamlets and villages that have sprung up along the river in the meantime). Today I quit my job with the military police and find myself outside Paradigm City in a place that should not exist. I wanted to get away. I should have been careful of what I wished for._

Roger walked through the deserted streets of the quaint little town. The strange architecture of the buildings gave the place an almost fairytale quality. Roger himself had emerged from such a cottage; the interior had matched the inside of his apartment perfectly, but the outside didn't match at all. "Hello…?" the man in black called. "Is anybody there?" What time was it? He didn't have a watch on. Colorful blue flowers were planted all along the street.

The town seemed deserted. There was no sound but the mournful sighing of the wind. Roger wandered the empty streets as the sun rose on the horizon. He spied a skinny ornate tower that seemed not to belong, but more importantly, he saw an old man watching him from a balcony atop a carillon tower. Roger dashed up the stone steps up to the tower and climbed the stairs two at a time, but when he got to the top no one was there. He looked out to see on one side of the tower was a village green bursting with foliage and surrounded by quaint colorful buildings in a variety of architectural styles. It was the same one he spied from his window when he woke up. In the distance, behind the buildings was the brown-grey of the desert, stretching forever into the horizon. No sign of the skyscrapers or the massive geodesic domes that belonged to the city he knew.

He was startled when the bell in the tower next to him tolled without warning. He dashed down the steps to find who rang the bell but found himself wandering through the streets completely alone. Suddenly, the obnoxious sound of a brass band was boomed throughout the village green.

"Huh?" Roger turned around. The village's picturesque central square was filled with people wearing bizarre multicolored outfits. A brass band paraded past a notice instructing people to _Walk on the Grass_.

The villagers seemed to sport an amazing array of casually tacky fashion. Black and white in contrast seemed popular, as well as startling combinations of red, yellow, blue, green, white and orange. Both the men and the women favored pullover shirts, either in a solid color or with horizontal stripes. Slacks were the daywear of choice, either in beige or some other bland color. Shoes were either loafers or deck shoes. To a man they all seemed to wear hats. Caps of all types were popular as well as straw boaters. None of the men wore ties and none of the women wore skirts. It was as if Roger had woke up on another planet. With the exception of those in the band every one of them was holding a string attached to a festive red balloon.

"Good morning all, it's another beautiful day," a woman's syrupy sweet voice suddenly announced from loudspeakers all over the village. "Your attention please. The Union would like to welcome the newest member our community, Mister Roger Smith! Your community expects all its citizens to do their part in making Roger Smith feel at home. There are two additional announcements: Ice cream is now on sale for your enjoyment. The flavor of the day is strawberry. Here is a warning. There is a possibility of light intermittent showers later in the day. Thank you for your attention and have a lovely day."

"What?" Roger paid more attention to the parade. Banners proclaiming _Welcome Roger Smith_ were being carried by various villagers. Roger felt his cheeks burn red as he clenched his black gloved fists. "What's going on here? Where is this place? What am I doing here?"

The villagers continued their celebration, seeming to ignore him despite the fact that some of them were carrying placards with his portrait emblazoned on them. Roger dashed towards the crowd and seized a man by his shirt. "Who are you? Why did you bring me here?"

"Welcome, Roger Smith," the man said with forced cheer.

"Ah!" Roger looked into the man's eyes and saw past the false merriment and perceived the unspeakable suffering of one who has irrevocably lost his soul. He pushed the man away and found himself surrounded by garishly clad well-wishers.

"Welcome to the Union, Roger Smith," smiled a man in an orange pullover sweater with horizontal black stripes.

"Glad you could join us, Roger Smith," greeted a woman who wore a blue fedora and a multicolored cape over a yellow and green sweater.

"Get away from me!" Roger cried as he pushed his way out of the crowd. He had always been a private person and had never cared for crowds, especially crowds full of eerily smiling strangers who all knew his name! Roger jogged away from the procession and gaped at the parade in his honor that seemed perfectly happy to continue on without him. Not knowing what else to do, he jogged back the cottage he had woken up in. The interior looked like his apartment at least.

He hesitated when he noticed the sign that said '3 private' on a striped pole under an awning before his cottage, but was more startled when the door opened automatically before him accompanied by a heavy electronic hum. There was no one behind it, the door opened by itself! As he hesitantly entered he looked around for other surprises and was startled when his telephone rang. He pushed the hourglass out of the way and picked up the phone that was on the end table next to the couch. The telephone had a number '3' printed in the center of the dial.

"Roger Smith?" a deep booming voice asked. "You must have so many questions. Why don't we have a chat? Number Two. The green dome."

The caller hung up, so Roger went outside to see if he could find address number two. It couldn't be that hard. The sign in front of his cottage indicated that he was at address number three, how far way could two be? It was then that he noticed an imposing edifice capped by a green dome. "I have questions all right," he muttered grimly as he strode through the street and up the steps to columned entrance to address number two.

Roger knocked at the door marked '2' and the door opened automatically like the one at his cottage. He was greeted by a tall elderly man dressed in an archaic tuxedo. The almost normal garb made the old man stand out more than his balding pate, full white mustache or black eyepatch did. "Hello there sir," the elderly butler bowed courteously. "I believe you are expected," he added genially.

"I bet I am," Roger grunted sarcastically.

"This way sir," the butler escorted him across an elegantly but conventionally furnished hall to a pair of double metal doors. They opened automatically and Roger took a step backwards when he saw a strange futuristic chamber before him.

"Welcome, Roger Smith, welcome!" the short jovial man with the wild beard greeted in a booming voice. Over his tacky togs he wore a dark jacket with a circular badge at its lapel. The badge was a red disk over which was inscribed the number '2'. "Sit down, and take a load off, my dear fellow!" He said as he used a multicolored umbrella to hit a button on his circular control panel. A chair emerged from a hidden panel in the floor. "You must have so many questions!"

"That's putting it mildly," Roger grunted as he approached the little man, sparing only a cursory glance at the chair. "What am I doing here?"

"Straight to the point, eh?" the cheerful dwarf chuckled before attempting a more serious tone. "You are the man for me sir! No beating around the bush! Well, it all has to do with your resignation, my dear fellow. It has raised a number of questions that important people want answered."

"What sort of people?" Roger asked. "Paradigm?"

"Your career with the military police was cut short far too soon," the little man continued. "Lots of new officers discover they can't handle the job, but _you_ were different. Your psychological profile indicates that you are more than up to the task. So why end a promising career so early, hm? Starting to remember things, are we? Having _strange dreams_ perhaps?"

"Why do you want to know?" Roger demanded. "What makes my choices any of your business?"

"You don't understand," the older man continued. "You are not like other men. The Memories buried in your head makes you very dangerous as a free agent…"

"Memories?" Roger sneered. "I don't have any Memories! Even if I did, does that give you the right to kidnap me and bring me here against my will?"

"Your behavior would indicate that you've had enough of Paradigm City," the older man with the '2' on his lapel replied smugly. "Allow us to offer you an alternative."

"What alternative?" Roger sneered. " _Here_? I don't even know where 'here' is!"

"Then allow me to enlighten you. Welcome to the Union," the man nodded in satisfaction. "Gone is the nightmarish dystopia that is Paradigm City, where capitalism and poverty takes the place of order and freedom. Here in the Union, everyone is equal, and the will of the people is absolute! Unlike the corrupt city of Paradigm, where a man without capital is a man without choices, here we _give_ you a choice."

"What if I don't want the choice you've given me?" Roger quipped.

"You can do what you want," the bearded man shrugged, "as long as it's what the _majority_ wants."

"What if it's _not_ what the majority wants?" Roger challenged.

"You don't want to be the lone wolf, Mister Smith," the little man shook his head condescendingly. "You really don't. Society cannot exist as a collection of separate individuals. The unified collective is civilization. Unorganized individuals are anarchy. We are a unified collective."

"If wanted to be part of a group I would have stayed with the Military Police. I've had enough of this," Roger shook his head. "I want to leave. I'll write you."

"Haven't you yet realized that there isn't any way out?" the little man said in mild amusement. "Now then, let's get on to business. Why _did_ you resign anyway?"

"I've got nothing to say to you!" Roger cried. "Do you hear me? Nothing!"

"Now be reasonable, Mister Smith," the man in the circular chair gently scolded. "It's just a matter of time. Sooner or later you'll tell me. Sooner or latter you'll want to. Let's make a deal. You cooperate, tell us what we want to know, and this can be a very nice place. You may even be given a position of authority."

"I'm will not make any deals with you!" Roger snarled. "I've resigned. I quit. I walked out, do you hear me? I've had it! I'm not going to be pushed, filed, stamped, indexed, briefed, debriefed, or numbered! My life is my own!"

"Really?" the bearded man in the chair feigned surprise.

"Yes," Roger asserted. "My life is my own. I'm a free human being. I'm getting out of here. You won't hold me."

"Oh but we will," the bearded man rose from his chair to meet Roger's challenge. "What we do here has to be done. It's the law of survival. It's either them or us."

"Do what?" Roger snarled. "Kidnap people? Imprison them? What's next, the thumbscrews? What are you going to do to me if I refuse to cooperate?"

"You act as if you've been locked up my dear fellow," the little man purred in his deep voice. "You wouldn't force our hand, would you Number Three?"

"Number what?"

"Three," the stocky little man nodded. "Until you accept your place with us, everyone has a number. Yours is Three. No offense, but you associate the name Roger Smith too much with your old life. That life is over. Roger Smith is dead and you've been reborn as a new man! Until you are given a new name, you'll be known as Number Three."

"Now wait a minute you can't just take away my name like this!" Roger protested. "I'm not a number, I'm a person!"

"Yes," the little man nodded. "A person who will now be known as Number Three."

"Why you…!" Roger stopped and looked at the number on the little man's badge. "Wait a second. You're wearing a number on your lapel," he observed. "Are you just a number? Does that mean that you're just as much of a prisoner as I am?"

"Oh my dear chap, of course," the little man laughed. "Until you're given a new name, none of us may have names. We're all equal here. All in this together. One for all and all for one as it were. That's why I sympathize with the way you're feeling right now. Sometimes it can be hard to accept the things we really want."

"I want out," Roger sneered.

"Yes," the little man nodded. "And you _are_ out. Of Paradigm City. If you wish you will never have to even _hear_ about that corrupt place again."

"This is getting me nowhere!" Roger cried. "I'm getting out of here!"

"Running away again are we?" the bearded man mocked.

"I didn't run away!" Roger turned to face him. "I resigned!"

"We have files on you, you know," the bearded little man told him. "We know everything about you, everything. Things about you that you couldn't even guess at, except in nightmares. And we know that you aren't the kind of man to run. So why run now, hm? Why run away from your life now? What happened? What changed the valiant and loyal Lieutenant Smith into a man who shuts everyone out and flees from his life of service?"

"You've got all those files on me," Roger snorted before he turned to go. " _You_ figure it out!" he snarled as he left.

"Don't worry Number Three," the little man said in a threatening tone. "You'll be cured. I'll see to it. No more nightmares. If you have so much as a bad dream, you'll come whimpering to me. Whimpering."

Roger left the building with the blue dome to see the villagers outside waving placards with his picture on it. Instead of ' _Welcome Roger Smith'_ they now said ' _Welcome Number 3._ ' They had given him a number and taken away his name.

Roger rushed back to the cottage he had awoken in earlier. It seemed to be his residence now that he was stuck in this place. Although most of the cottages looked alike he could spot his because it had the number '3' on the door. When he entered his 'home' he found out he wasn't alone.

The young beauty was curvier than a collection of beach balls. Her platinum blonde hair cascaded down to her shoulders and she wore a pink maid's uniform. She was dusting the interior of the place, but she appeared to be putting on an exhibition in her pornographically short skirt.

"And just who are you, Doll-face?" Roger snarled.

She turned and revealed her lovely face and the fact that her pert curvy chest was straining against the fabric of her blouse. "I'm your personal maid," she said in her sweet melodic voice. "The Labor Exchange sent me."

"First rule you should know Angel is that everyone who lives in my house has got to wear black," Roger sneered. "Where can I get a map?"

"Who needs a map?" the blonde shrugged. "Our little community isn't that large. Pretty soon you'll know this place like the back of your hand."

"Who runs this place Doll-face?"

"I don't know," she stamped her foot defiantly. "And don't call me 'Doll-face' Number Three! If you're going to call me cute nicknames, I prefer you call me 'Angel'!"

* * *

On a desk filled with hourglasses a phone rings. Roger's hand picks up the receiver and a sinister voice says:

 _Next: Do Not Forsake Me Oh My Darling_


	2. Do Not Forsake Me Oh My Darling

_The Big O_ _and all of its settings and characters are owned by Cartoon Network, Sunrise, and Bandai Visual._

 _The Prisoner_ _and all its settings, characters and dialogue are owned by_ _Everyman Films and ITC._

 _Additional material by Alain Carraze, David Ladyman, George Markstein, Patrick McGoohan, Helene Ozwald, and David Tomblin._

THE BIG O:

ACT 0

ROGER THE PRISONER

 _Chapter Two:_ _Do Not Forsake Me Oh My Darling_

"So you've got your pride; that's real interesting," Roger smiled at enchanting blonde. "Okay. Who runs this place, _Angel_?"

"I don't know," the lovely young woman in the tacky pink maid's uniform said as she put her hands on her hips.

"That man with the two on his jacket is just a figurehead," Roger announced. "He's just a number like I am. If he's Number Two, who's Number One?"

"No one," she insisted.

"If there isn't a Number One, where can I find the man in charge, the one without a number?" Roger continued. "Who's Number Zero Angel? Where can I find the great big 'O'?"

"In this place we have a saying." The blonde had fear in her eyes. "A still tongue makes a happy life."

"You don't even pretend," Roger chuckled in derision. "At least in Paradigm City, we pretend that freedom exists! Here you don't even bother…" He stopped his tirade when he noticed the small circular badge with a number pinned to lapel. "Number three hundred and forty. You're a prisoner too."

"Here we are all prisoners until you have freed yourself of your old loyalties," the girl said. "Until you have earned your name the rest of us pledge not to use ours."

"Or you're not allowed to reveal your names, is that it?" Roger smirked. "Seriously though, that pink outfit is too much. It's more of a fetish suit than a maid's uniform. The next time you try to seduce me wear something subtle."

"Too much?" the blonde gave a bashful smile. "They told me your file said that you had a thing for girls in maid outfits. It was one of your fetishes."

"I got a thing for the color black," Roger smiled. "I can't help it that most maid uniforms are black. Tell your people to do their research."

"I got a thing for the color pink," the curvaceous blonde smiled defiantly. "You got a problem with that?"

"Do they allow such individualism around here?" Roger raised a skeptical eyebrow.

"As long as you don't go overboard with it," the girl replied. "So tell me, why did you leave Paradigm City?"

"Your masters kidnapped me," Roger replied as he started searching his 'home'. Opening the cupboards in the kitchen revealed cans of food that was all the same brand. The labels all had a red disk printed on them.

"No I mean why did you resign from Paradigm City's Military Police?" she clarified.

"Why do you want to know?" Roger raised one of his rather unique eyebrows as he walked through the rooms of his home. He had never noticed lava lamps in his apartment before…

"Just making conversation," she shrugged as she followed him.

"Are you going to ask me if I've remembered anything recently?" he asked as he opened his desk and searched it.

"Have you?" she asked.

"You know, that funny little man in the green dome wanted to know the same things," Roger smirked. "I've got some questions of my own. How do I get out of here? Any buses? Where do I go to buy a car?"

"All our taxis provide local service only," she replied. "There aren't any buses."

"Anybody own a car around here?" Roger asked as he looked at a calendar book. On the open page it the words ' _Arrived today. Made very welcome'_ were written in what looked like his handwriting.

"Nobody needs one," she shrugged. "There's no place to go. There's just miles of trackless desert as far as the eye can see."

"A prison with no walls," Roger nodded as he left the desk and marched into the bedroom. "Very clever. How did I get here?"

"You arrived last night," she said.

"How?" he asked as he took the cover off a lamp and unscrewed the bulb.

"I don't know," she crossed her arms. "I was asleep."

"Does everybody in town know my name?" he asked as he peered into the empty lamp socket. He shook the light bulb next to his ear and listened.

"We do our best to make new arrivals feel welcome," she smiled.

"I can see that," he said as his eyes travelled up and down her body.

"But you won't need your old name anymore," she told him. "For the time being you're Number Three."

"If you treat me like I'm three, I'll act like I'm three," he sneered. "So how hard is it to steal a car around here?"

"The taxis aren't actual cars _per se_ ," she said with a wry smile. "They're more like golf carts actually."

Roger paled. "Golf carts."

"Golf carts," she nodded. "So good luck getting across the desert with one of those, even if you can find out where you're going."

"I don't suppose there's anyplace I could buy a map?" he asked weakly.

"Like I said who needs a map in _this_ place?" she shrugged. "We're a small community and after a while everybody knows everybody around here. There are signs in front of most of the buildings. You won't be lost for long, I assure you."

"Nice," Roger frowned. "I had to have been brought here somehow. Somewhere around here there's a vehicle that can cross the desert and reach Paradigm City."

"Well if there is they haven't told me about it," she shrugged again.

"Would you tell me if they did?" Roger asked skeptically.

"Probably not," she smiled. "Does it matter? I like you. I want to see you again."

"Do you have a choice?" Roger growled.

"No, but neither do you," she retorted. "I have a feeling we'll be seeing a _lot_ of each other." She waggled her eyebrows suggestively.

"I don't," Roger shook his head. He moved a picture aside to reveal a wall safe and proceeded to open it. There didn't seem to be any need to conceal it or protect the combination. The entire cottage was a duplicate of his apartment back in Paradigm City with some modification to allow for the shape of the structure. Surprisingly the combination opened the safe but the unsurprisingly what he kept in there was gone, replaced by a folder filled with strange pieces of incredibly thin cardboard. "Where's my money? Afraid I might bribe someone into giving me a lift?"

"The money you used in your old life isn't accepted here," she told him. "Around here we use 'credit units'. Each time you buy something at a store a clerk punches holes in your card to keep track of how much you spent. You can see there's space for one, ten, and hundred unit holes."

"How do shopkeepers keep track on how much they made during the day?" Roger asked while studying the cards. "There's no way they can make a profit, they can only force people to spend!"

"Everyone is given an amount of units based on their worth," the maid said.

"I must be worth quite a lot," Roger smirked. "I've got a maid."

"I'm all yours," she smiled mischievously.

"Goodbye Angel," he said as he rolled his eyes. "Your services won't be needed tomorrow. Don't let the door hit you on the way out."

The blonde glowered at him but she was still drop dead gorgeous. It was obvious that she wasn't used to being turned down. "Be seeing you at the Pledge of Allegiance today," she muttered as she gestured with a strange salute that made it look like she was placing an imaginary monocle over her eye.

"If there's nothing good to read," he sneered.

"There isn't," she said as she turned and left.

To Roger's chagrin, he was sorry to see her go. Not only was she a feast for the eyes, but she was the only source of information he really had. As an officer in the Military Police he knew how to learn a lot from the kind of denials and lies he was told. And there was the little fact that she seemed to be the first real person he had met around here. Yes he was a loner but right now he was lonely.

No time to think about it now. If he couldn't get back to Paradigm City, there would be plenty of time to let the Stockholm syndrome kick in later. Now that she was gone he could hear sweet, gentle, syrupy music in 'his' house. He searched for a radio before finally discovering a rectangular speaker on a shelf that was almost exactly the size of a breadbox. He looked for some knobs or dials, anything to adjust the station of the radio. There were none. There wasn't even a way to turn it off and on. For a moment he thought it was a speaker attached to a radio but there were no wires on the strange box. The speaker _was_ the radio, and there was no way to turn the music off.

Roger's brow furrowed when he realized the purpose of the peaceful music, to lull him into a state of relaxation. With an animal growl, he threw the speaker on the floor and stomped on it until the music stopped. That was when he heard a tinny feminine voice from outside.

"Attention electrics department," a syrupy female voice announced from somewhere. "Please go to Number Three where an adjustment is needed."

Roger ran his hands through his hair. Not only were they sending someone over to replace the music as soon as he broke it but they did so over an intercom the whole town could hear! This place was insane! It didn't matter who these people were, he had to get out of here!

He rushed out the door back into the street and roamed the village passing denizens, walking, riding bicycles, or riding golf carts. Not a car in sight. Most of them were carrying multicolored umbrellas, despite the fact that there wasn't a cloud in the sky. They were even open!

He bumped into a man in coveralls carrying flowers in a basket. "Careful sir, they're new plants, bluebells, they don't grow anywhere else in the world!" the man warned him.

"Is there a store?" Roger asked. "Where do I buy some food and water?"

"Oh, you're new here," the man said as Roger noticed he was wearing a badge with a number on it. Did everybody wear one of those stupid badges? "Here's a map sir," he said as he showed Roger a tourist billboard style map of the village done in plastic. A number of buttons were at the bottom along with a message in large print: PUSH AND FIND OUT. The gardener pushed a button and a square representing a building lit up on the map. "Here you go sir, the store. Not to worry, everything's marked with signs."

"Thank you," Roger looked around. It was true. Everything was marked with little blue signs with white type, but nothing was named, and everything was in lower case type: old people's home, taxi stand, newspaper stand, etc. Everything was identified, but in the most generic way possible. It was surreal.

Roger walked about the town staring at the foreign buildings and cottages until he found the general store. A chime on the door heralded his entrance. Inside was a small mom and pop store that could be found outside the domes back in Paradigm City. Standing behind the counter was a skinny young man whose messy blonde bangs covered his eyes. He was wearing an apron and a black fedora over his striped shirt and tan slacks. His blood red lips smiled at Roger's approach. "Good afternoon, what…" he smiled mockingly. "…can I get you this fine day?"

Roger was somewhat taken aback by the shopkeeper's predatory manner. "Uh, yeah, Mister uh…" he looked at the shopkeeper's badge. "Number Two hundred and seventy one. I'd like some supplies if that's okay?"

"You're new aren't you?" the shopkeeper snickered.

"Yeah, I'd like a backpack, some dried fruit and nuts, some bottled water, crackers and cheese, and some granola bars if…"

"Would you be interested in an umbrella?" the shopkeeper interrupted.

Roger rolled his eyes and attempted to remain civil. "Why? Do you think I'll need one? There's not a cloud in the sky."

"We had an announcement warning of a chance of showers," the shopkeeper shrugged. "You wouldn't want to be caught outside without protection would you?"

"Some people prefer to walk in the rain without an umbrella," Roger countered.

"Why that's silly," the cadaverously thin shopkeeper sneered. "You would be the only one in town without one."

Roger realized that he was crouching and clenching his fist as if preparing for combat. This shopkeeper was downright unsettling. He got the impression that if he turned his back this guy would put a knife in it. "Hey, if I don't want an umbrella it's my business fella. It's my choice. That's what it means to be a free human being."

"You're not wearing your badge," the man smiled.

"I must have left it in my other pants," Roger shrugged. "I'll have to get one the next time I'm in town."

"Are you sure you don't want an umbrella?" the shopkeeper asked as he picked up an umbrella and pointed at Roger. "In the Union we expect people to conform. Those who don't conform really _need_ protection." To emphasize his point Number 271 pressed a hidden stud in the umbrella's handle and a knife blade emerged from the tip. "They need protection more than anybody else."

"Hey!" Roger yelped as he jumped back. "What the devil?"

"You should watch yourself," Number 271 snickered. "The rain may hit you sooner than you think."

"I'll uh, come back," Roger stammered as he backed to the door. "I um, left my punch card with the credit units at home. See you around!"

"Be seeing you," Number 271 sneered.

"Not if I see you first!" Roger snarled before he took off running. He kept jogging even he reached the edge of town. It didn't matter that he didn't know where he was going, even dying in the desert had to be better than being here!

Between being taken here against his will, a transparent attempt to seduce him, everybody in town knowing his name and refusing to use _any_ names, that crazy storekeeper was the last straw! His paranoia was out of control, and he had to find a quiet place to think before he did something crazy.

Even the streets of this strange town offered no place he could reflect on his situation for he could still here a brass band playing an overblown jingoistic tune. He couldn't hear himself think! There was music playing, all the time! And now he thought he heard singing!

He turned with a start to see everybody on the street stop what they were doing and march down the street towards him. People were coming out of the their cottages and other buildings and coming towards him! It was as if the song was a signal that it was time to seize the new arrival. Number 271 came out of the store and swung his umbrella jauntily while walking towards him. It was obvious that whatever the crowd had in store for him, Roger didn't want to stick around to find out what it was. Without thinking, the black clad young man turned and fled.

* * *

On a desk filled with hourglasses a phone rings. Roger's hand picks up the receiver and a sinister voice says:

 _Next: The Butler Did It_


	3. The Butler Did It

_The Big O_ _and all of its settings and characters are owned by Cartoon Network, Sunrise, and Bandai Visual_

 _The Prisoner_ _and all its settings, characters and dialogue are owned by_ _Everyman Films and ITC._

 _Additional material by Alain Carraze, David Ladyman, George Markstein, Patrick McGoohan, Helene Ozwald, and David Tomblin._

THE BIG O:

ACT 0

ROGER THE PRISONER

 _Chapter Three:_ _The Butler Did It_

Roger hid in the bushes behind a brick wall that ran along the street. The crowd of crazily dressed Unionists continued marching past him and singing a military jingoistic march that all of they all seemed to know. The words were in a foreign language that Roger couldn't understand. After they passed him, Roger decided that they weren't pursuing him. Curious, he followed them to the town square. The crowd formed a circle around a flagpole where a black flag with a red sphere was waving. It looked like everyone in town was there. Stragglers who were late approached singing or humming the tune, drawn there by the music. A brass band accompanied them from a nearby lawn. Roger spotted the frightening Number 271, and managed to spot the diminutive Number Two. The only one he knew who he didn't spot was…

"We're late," said a gentle voice jogging up behind him. Number 340 looked concerned, almost worried. She had shed her maid outfit for a pullover shirt with black and pink stripes and tan slacks. "Come on, we better join in. You don't want to be late. It's the Pledge of Allegiance Ceremony."

" _You're_ late," Roger smiled at the frightened woman. "I'm not going. What's the matter? Don't feel like joining the rest of the sheep? I'll bet you're late to all these Pledge of Allegiance Ceremonies."

A feminine blush revealed that his barb had hit home. "N-no I'm not," she lied. "I was looking for _you_. I know how stubborn and bullheaded you can be that's all! Now come on! You're only allowed so many chances in this place and you're in danger of using them up."

"No thanks," he shook his head. "If I wanted to give lip service to a cause I didn't believe in, I'd still be working for the military police."

"You are so selfish!" she protested.

"Selfish?"

"Do you have any values at all?" she shook her head in disbelief. "Any rules?"

"Of course I do," he assured her, "but they're different values, different rules."

"You won't let yourself be helped!"

"Or destroyed," he retorted.

"You just want to spoil things!" 340 shook her lovely head. "You want to destroy everything! Can't you see that this society is what's best for you?"

"This might be the best society in the world, but it doesn't matter," Roger shrugged. "I didn't ask to come here; I was brought here against my will. I won't be a goldfish in a bowl, Angel. You and your friends can do what you want to, but I've got to live my own life and choose my own destiny. Sorry."

She didn't seem to be paying attention. Her gaze was directed at the singers. "I've got to go. I'll see you later?"

"You got a choice?" he sneered.

"Not really," she admitted, "and neither do you. Be seeing you," she added before she left to join the rest of the Union.

"Yeah, don't act like a human being Angel, or you might confuse everybody," Roger sighed as he put his hands in his pockets and turned to walk the empty streets. He had thought he had found an ally in this strange place but she just wasn't ready. He got the feeling she'd feel at home in Paradigm City, where money is king and nobody cares what you're doing. With her charm and beauty it would take less than a day for her to find a wealthy patron who could pamper her and ensure that she need never work again. But that would just be a different kind of slavery wouldn't it? Was she strong enough to actually run her own life and try to make it on her own?

On his own. Roger was on his own wasn't he? Everybody in the Union was at the town square and Roger was all alone, completely friendless in a place that… Wait a minute. Everybody was at the town square! This was the perfect time to escape!

Okay, perhaps he ought to wait until he had a plan but when he did make a break for it, he would do so during a Pledge of Allegiance Ceremony. In the meantime this was the perfect time for reconnaissance; perhaps he could steal something he'd need that he couldn't buy. After all, everybody was at the ceremony. Aside of himself, there wasn't a single person walking the streets…

…except that guy, the old man with the eyepatch who had served as the butler in the green dome. Roger couldn't believe it. What was the old man doing here? Why wasn't he with the others? Instead of singing in the town square the old man was strolling through town without a care in the world as if he was walking home from work. What was going on? What made _him_ so different?

As Roger followed the old man, he noticed something else. Without exception, everyone in the Union followed the tacky dress code. Pullover shirts and tan slacks were the order of the day, and usually in a stomach churning array of color. The butler, on the other hand, wore an archaic tuxedo that he now supplemented with a black derby and a black umbrella. Everybody else's umbrella was striped and multicolored but the butler's was basic black. Most Unionists walked with their umbrellas open, even though it never rained, but the old man carried his umbrella closed. The butler was the only person in this place aside of Roger who actually wore a tie! As a matter of fact, if Roger remembered accurately, the butler was the only person aside of himself who didn't wear a number!

"Well, well," Roger murmured to himself. "Did the butler do it? Hey you!" he shouted as he jogged forward to catch up. "You there! Hey!"

"Yes sir?" the butler asked politely as he turned to face Roger. "Can I help you?"

"Yeah, you could," Roger smirked. "Tell me, why aren't you in the town square with the rest of your friends?"

"Should I be sir?"

"Yeah, everybody else is singing," Roger snorted.

"Are they sir?"

"Come on, can't you hear it?"

"Hear what sir?"

"The singing!" Roger gestured behind him. "You can hear it all over town."

"Oh my apologies," the butler nodded graciously. "They play a lot of music here. I suppose I just tune it out. Perhaps my hearing isn't what it used to be."

"Or maybe you got something better to do?"

"Generally yes sir," the butler agreed, "but I always have time for you. Is there anything I can help you with?"

Roger squinted at the butler. He was a cool customer. No matter how belligerent Roger acted, the old man refused to act the slightest bit hostile. It was as if the old man was a waiter and the street they were standing in was a fancy restaurant. He looked into the old man's eye, searching for any sign of deception.

One eye. The old man had only one eye. So far Roger had never seen a badge with a one on it. One. Number One. "Are _you_ Number One?"

"Not since I was young sir," the old man replied. "I was the number one bunter on my team but it's been ages since I played."

"No, I mean are you the one in charge?" Roger clarified. "Are you the big man around here?"

"Me sir? In charge?" the old man gestured to himself innocently. "Perish the thought sir," he replied as he held up a conciliatory palm. "I'm afraid my responsibilities don't include administration."

"Well what's your number then?" Roger asked.

"I'm afraid like most people my age I don't really know how old I am," the old man apologized. "I tell people I'm fifty, but I'm probably closer to sixty."

"Don't you have a number?"

"A number of what sir?"

"A number!" Roger repeated. "I thought that everyone was given a number and not allowed to use their real names until I come over to your way of thinking."

"My way of thinking?" the old man seemed amused. "That's a rather rum notion if you don't mind my saying so sir. I was under the impression that your choices were your own."

"Not for me, I'm the new guy," Roger growled. "How long are you going to keep me here anyway?"

"Sir, I assure you, I have no intention of keeping you here if it goes against your wishes," the butler assured him. "They told me that you wanted to _leave_ Paradigm City and start a new life."

"Yes, but not by being kidnapped!" Roger snarled. "This place is insane! I'm not joining a cult! Tell me how to get out of here! I want to go back to Paradigm City!"

"My apologies for the misunderstanding sir. How do you wish to leave?"

"Is there a car I could use or something?" Roger asked.

"Dear me, it will take you several days to get back by car," the butler sighed. "I recommend you pack plenty of petrol, food, and water and check the radiator before you go. The road is almost hidden by the desert sands and can be difficult to follow after windy weather. I have a key to the garage and could…"

"Wait a minute, it's that easy? Why are you helping me?" Roger interrupted. "I thought everybody was conspiring to keep me here. I don't get it. Why are you telling me all this?"

"Because you asked me sir," the butler shrugged. "You requested that I procure a vehicle for you."

"Do you do everything you're told?" Roger asked.

"That depends on who's doing the telling sir," the butler replied with a hint of indignation. "I assure you, when all is said and done I serve only my master, and no one else."

"So who told you to help me?"

"You did sir. Just now."

"No I mean _who_ told you to help me?"

" _You did_ sir," the butler repeated as if he was talking to a child. " _Just now_."

"Never mind," Roger shook his head. "Could you show me where the cars are? Is there any special way to get in?"

"The building is locked if that's what you mean," the butler replied. "As I was saying, I have the key. Did you wish to leave now sir?"

"Yes! I want to leave! I want to leave right now!"

"Very well sir," the old man nodded. "I'll hide a vehicle in the cave just east of town for you, but it will take me at least an hour or two. I apologize for the delay but I'll have to check it over and stock it with the supplies you'll need to make your journey. You wouldn't want to be caught out in the desert. Be seeing you."

"Uh, okay…" Roger just stood there like an idiot as he watched the old man stride purposely down the street. He went over the conversation in his mind trying to make sense of it. The old man had to be messing with him. There was no way he was going to get a car so Roger could drive out of here. The old guy was just playing with him. Could he be Number One? Were the numbers ranks and if so why was Roger's number three? And where was the old man going when Roger spotted him anyway? The old fox had left him with more questions than answers.

The whole thing smelled like a trap but Roger didn't have anything else to do. The Pledge of Allegiance Ceremony wouldn't last forever so if Roger wanted to leave today he would have to look for that cave the butler mentioned and get sneak out and see if there was a car there that evening.

A stroll to the east end of town revealed an asphalt road that stretched to the east before disappearing into the horizon. Even with the road showing him where to go, it was too far to walk. He investigated some nearby hills and discovered a cave mouth with a surprisingly level floor. When he went inside he could have sworn the cave floor was concrete.

He went back to his cottage to pack some clothes for the trip and ran into some obstacles. There was no suitcase, and although the clothes he found appeared to fit him, they were all in the tackily colorful styles of the Union. If that was his only alternative, he'd wear his black double breasted suit every day! He also looked for a flashlight he could use to explore the cave, but of course the crazies who lived here didn't leave him with something that useful. There was nothing for it than waiting for darkness and seeing if the old man was playing a trick on him or was actually going to deliver.

After the sun went down, Roger waited until everybody was off the street before making his way to the east edge of town. He was startled by a female voice.

"Hello, and good evening, curfew time, sleep time, fifteen minutes from now to curfew. Meanwhile allow us to lull you away with music." It was the syrupy sweet female voice from the Union intercom, Roger could see one of the red speakers on a candy cane striped pole now. Did that voice countdown every night or just nights that a new arrival like Roger was in town? This place has a curfew too? As he made his way out of town the voice called out at ten minutes to curfew, then five, then one, until finally: "And now it's here. It's curfew. Chiming out as usual. Nighty-night. Be seeing you."

When Roger reached the cave he had found earlier that day the butler was waiting for him with a jeep weighed down with supplies. "There you are sir," the one eyed old man said as he shone a flashlight on first Roger and then the steering wheel. "I have endeavored to fill your vehicle with food and water, and you'll notice several jerry cans of petrol attached to the back end. I've checked the oil, and included a hat and some sunblock to keep the sun off."

Roger was blown away with how prepared the old man was. "Uh, thanks. Do you think this could get us…"

"One more thing sir," the old man warned him. "If you wish to deactivate the homing beacon on this vehicle you use this little switch hidden on the steering column behind the wheel, but when you do that you trigger an alarm that will alert security that one of their jeeps has gone missing. You want to deactivate the beacon when you get far enough away to elude pursuit but not so far away that they'll notice you leaving in the first place. It's a bit of a catch 22 I'm afraid."

"Nice. They think of everything," Roger snorted. "Are you coming with me?"

"I wish I could sir, but for your sake it's best I don't leave it," the old man apologized.

"It?"

"Don't worry sir, I'll tell you all about it when you're ready," the butler said. "In the meantime, the jeep is here if you need it. Take care sir. Be seeing you."

The old man held a boxlike remote control in his hand and a metal door slid up to reveal a lighted passage leading away. It must lead to that garage he was talking about. Before Roger could think of anything else to ask him, the butler walked into the underground passage and the door slid shut behind him, leaving the cave as dark as a… cave... with only the full moon outside to light the way.

"No sense looking a gift horse in the mouth," Roger decided as he got in the jeep and started it up. He drove out of the cave and into the moonlight. After he got the car on the road, he felt around on the steering column and found the switch the old man told him about. "He said it shuts off the homing beacon," Roger muttered, "but turning it off sets off an alarm." Did it really? In his experience, a security device needed to be deactivated to avoid setting off an alarm, not to set off one. Anyone wanting to steal a jeep should have to know about the hidden switch in the first place if they wanted to get away with it. "Hell with it," Roger grumbled. "I'm shutting it off," he added as he flicked the switch.

* * *

On a desk filled with hourglasses a phone rings. Roger's hand picks up the receiver and a sinister voice says:

 _Next: The Hospital_


	4. The Hospital

_The Big O and all of its settings and characters are owned by Cartoon Network, Sunrise, and Bandai Visual._

 _The Prisoner and all its settings, characters and dialogue are owned by Everyman Films and ITC._

 _Additional material by Alain Carraze, David Ladyman, George Markstein, Patrick McGoohan, Helene Ozwald, and David Tomblin._

THE BIG O:

ACT 0

ROGER THE PRISONER

 _Chapter Four:_ _The Hospital_

Under the village was a large hemispherical control room. A seesaw shaped apparatus dominated its center. On each end of the apparatus sat a man facing outward and keeping a close eye on his end of the seesaw. Beyond the seesaw from the entrance and also facing outward were five other observations posts. Just behind them, toward the center of the room in a ring about four feet wide was a map of the village on which ground movement could be tracked. The hemispheric wall had a schematic of stars from which aerial movements were similarly tracked, as well as a view screen large enough to put in a movie theatre. Watching the view screen was a disquieting bald headed supervisor speaking into a cordless telephone. "Attention post fourteen, attention post fourteen, yellow alert. Yellow alert. Yellow alert. Now leaving eastern perimeter, Number Three, repeat Number Three. Eastern area Number Three heading for outer zone, in our vehicle. Orange Alert, orange alert all units."

On the view screen was Roger Smith, in a jeep driving through the desert and making a bid for freedom.

"Authorization to release Cerberus acknowledged," the supervisor droned into the cordless phone. "Repeat, authorization has been given to release Cerberus. Now approaching, contact imminent, contact imminent."

A dreadful roar caused Roger to look behind him. "Ah!" Sand exploded into the air as the earth behind him disgorged a metal behemoth that was straight out of nightmare. It was a huge white robot that tore after him on giant rollers. In form in looked like a cross between a giant wolf and a tank. Three lupine heads were mounted in the front and the fenders resembled paws on the ends of folded legs. The juggernaut got on the road behind him and increased its speed. The mouths on the wolf heads opened to reveal nozzles or weapons but it didn't matter. If that thing hit him, it would roll right over Roger's jeep without even knowing it was in a collision.

Roger nearly turned his jeep over as he swerved off the road and onto the sand. The jeep lost speed as it lost traction and that was something Roger couldn't afford. The monster that was pursuing him was some kind of all-terrain vehicle and the jeep had been built for endurance and not for speed. In desperation, Roger dove off the moving jeep and rolled to safety as the creature blindly followed the abandoned car. It didn't take long for the metal monster to change course and turn in a wide arc to head back towards Roger.

It was pointless to try to outrun it but Roger ran anyway. Reason vanished and survival instinct took over. He dodged to the side and allowed it to pass him but the metal monstrosity executed a perfect bootlegger's turn and was facing him again. "No! Go away!" Roger cried as the creature rolled towards him. One of the metal mouths opened and a conical nozzle pointed itself at him.

There was a flash of light and a deafening electronic chirp as Roger was knocked off his feet by a pulse of energy. It felt like every muscle in his body was constricting as a painful tingling sensation engulfed him.

When he next came to he was lying in bed in a strange room. He felt nauseous, but adrenaline was starting to kick in. There was only one thing to do at this point: Go through the clichés. "Where am I?" he asked as he sat up.

"You're in the hospital," a woman in a nurse's uniform told him. "I'll inform the doctor that you're awake."

As she left, Roger wasted no time getting out of bed. Thankfully he wasn't in a hospital smock, he was in blue pajamas. He found some slippers and by his bed and was soon exploring.

"What are you doing out of bed?" A deep rich voice challenged. A man in a white doctor's coat approached him. "You should be resting."

"There's nothing the matter with me," Roger protested.

"Perhaps not, but I'd just like a checkup to make sure," the doctor rumbled.

Roger looked him in the eye. If looks could kill, the doctor would be dead. "I'm all right. I want to leave."

"Let me be the judge of that," said the unfazed doctor. "The aftereffects can be quite unpleasant. I must ask you to follow me."

"What if I don't?"

"It's for your own good," the doctor shrugged.

"All right," Roger grumbled. If they were going to do something to him, they wouldn't have waited for him to wake up, he decided.

"There's nothing to worry about," the doctor assured him as he handed Roger a blue bathrobe with white stripes. "The tests are quite routine."

Roger was distracted as he followed the doctor down the hall. He peered through a door with a circular porthole type red tinted window and saw a long corridor bathed in red light. He was amazed to see two rows of patients dressed in straightjackets sitting motionless on the floor opposite each other.

"Group therapy," the doctor explained. "Counteracts obsessional guilt complexes producing neurosis."

Roger was disturbed to see an orderly escort a man whose head had been shaved bald who was staring straight ahead as if in a trance. Squares of white bandages decorated his scalp like polka dots.

When Roger entered the examination room he sat in what appeared to be a dentist's chair while an arrangement of four spotlights shone down on him. Amazingly the examination was no more intrusive than the doctor using a stethoscope to listen to his heart.

The physician then went to bank of computers, pushed some keys on a teletype and extracted a computer punch card. "There you go," the doctor said. "You're in fine shape. A picture of health. You're free to go in the morning. We'll fix you up with some new clothes."

"What about my old ones?"

"They've been burnt."

"Why?" Roger snapped.

"I'll take you to your ward," the doctor rumbled conversationally.

The next day Roger was released, and when he stepped outside he saw the hospital was in imposing building reminiscent of a medieval fortress and a striking contrast to the pretty villas and quaint cottages in the rest of the village. He was dressed in the obligatory tan slacks and loafers on his legs and feet, but his arms and torso were clad in a dark pullover shirt covered by a dark jacket with white trim. A straw boater was on his head and pinned to his lapel was a circular badge with the number '3'.

An orderly was handing him cards that he pulled out of a folder. "Here's your identity card, your employment card, your credit card, your health and welfare card, and a free ride home."

When the orderly turned to leave Roger tossed the straw hat off his head and tore the badge from his jacket.

When he returned to the cottage marked '3' his telephone rang. Roger rolled his eyes wondering why he was even surprised anymore. "What do you want?" he snarled into the telephone.

"Number Three?" a woman's voice asked.

"I said what do you want?"

"You are Number Three."

"That's the number of this place," Roger conceded.

"Call from Number Two."

"I refuse to accept a call from a man who names himself after something that should be flushed down the toilet!"

Roger took a step backwards as the television turned itself on. Smiling from the screen was the bearded face of the little man who called himself Number Two. "Good morning my dear chap!" the bearded man beamed. "And how are we this morning? You've had a dreadful experience. Any complaints?"

"Yes I'd like to mind my own business."

"So do we. Do you fancy a chat?"

"I don't come when I'm called," Roger grunted. "If you want me, you know where I am." As he hung up the phone the television turned itself off and the door opened to reveal the smiling little man who called himself Number Two.

"Just got back from the hospital, I presume?" Number Two smiled.

"You presume a lot," Roger sneered while noticing an attractive woman in her thirties wearing a maid's uniform and a badge with the number '12' carrying a covered tray. She had shoulder length blonde hair that framed her face with long curls like the hair of the child actress Shirley Temple giving her an innocent childlike appearance.

"Care for some lunch Number Three?" Number Two asked invitingly.

"You know, for a society that claims that everybody's equal, you sure have a lot of servants," Roger observed. "This is the second maid I've seen and you have a butler." Roger flinched when he realized he had mentioned the butler. Out of all the people he had met here only the tall, one-eyed old man with the butler's uniform had tried to help him. It was best not to draw attention to him. "So who's _this_ pretty lady?" he asked as he pretended to leer at her discretely.

"Oh this is just Number Twelve," the deep voiced gnome boomed. "She may appear to be a mere domestic but she has an infallible memory, don't you my dear? _Ich denke, dass er dich mag._ "

" _Gut, wird es einfacher, ihm nahe zu bleiben,_ " she replied humbly.

They weren't speaking English! Strange as it may seem, there were still boroughs in Paradigm City where foreign accents and even languages were still spoken. Roger's ear identified the tongue as German, but he may have been mistaken. Yes, no, black, white, forest, castle, hello, and goodbye were the only German words he knew.

"Does she speak English?" Roger asked abruptly.

"Not a word my dear boy," Number Two replied as they were served hearty roast beef sandwiches and steaming cups of coffee, "but she's very bright. Picks things up fairly quickly. Like you, she's brand new here. She'll get her new name when you do."

"Unless I keep my old one," Roger sparred between bites. "You came right over. What's the occasion?"

"Ha! Still getting straight to the point Number Three!" his little captor boomed. He took a small palm sized microcassette recorder out of his jacket and spoke into it softly: "File Number Three, section forty two, subsection six, paragraph three. Add, impatient, little tolerance for time wasters. I can never remember," he murmured as he returned his attention to Roger. "Is it one lump or two?"

"It's in the file," Roger sparred as he continued eating lunch.

"Yes, as a matter of fact yes," Number Two conceded, "But it would save time if you just answered."

"Why?" Roger sneered. "Are you running out of time?"

"Does not take sugar," Two said into his microcassette recorder. "Frightened of putting on weight?"

"No," Roger snorted. "Nor of being reduced."

"Oh that's excellent," Number Two smiled politely. I am glad you're here. You can help me with a little problem of mine."

"Problem?" Roger teased.

"Yes, it has to do with the general elections," the little man continued in an apologetic tone. "Today is the first day of the election campaign. The current outlook is very depressing don't you think?"

"Elections?" Roger repeated in disbelief. "In this place?"

"But of course my dear chap!" Number Two laughed in his booming voice. "Every twelve months we have an election. Are you going to run?"

"Like crazy," Roger nodded, "the first chance I get."

The little man let out a huge laugh in his deep booming voice. "Oh that is good! That's rich! I must as 'has a strong sense of humor!' They tend to leave out important things like that!"

"I'm sure they do," Roger smiled thinly.

"No, my dear boy," Number Two clarified, "I meant, run for office."

"Whose?"

"Well, mine for instance?"

"Now who has the strong sense of humor?"

"But of course!" Two crowed. "Humor is the very essence of a democratic society!" At that moment the radio boomed a patriotic jingle worthy of a marching band. "Well come along boy, no rest for the wicked," the older man sighed as he got up from the table and walked into Roger's living room. Roger's cottage was on a hill and the back of it looked out on the village square from a balcony. The normally jovial little man led him out to see the joyous colorful throng of Unionists cheer enthusiastically as the pulled on the strings of their bright red balloons and chant Two's number.

"It looks like a unanimous majority," Roger remarked sardonically.

"Exactly," nodded the shorter and older man in concern. "That's what's worrying me. Very bad for morale, you know. Some of these people don't seem to appreciate the value of free elections. They think it's a game."

"Everyone votes for a dictator," retorted an unconvinced Roger.

"Not at all," Number Two shook his head. "It's just that their resistance is low. We've done too good a job at making everyone conform. Frankly my dear fellow, you're just the sort of candidate we need. A dissenting opinion."

"I thought that sort of thing was forbidden around here."

"Don't be silly, a healthy society needs a little muckraking once and a while. Otherwise nothing would ever change. There'd be no progress. If you don't like the society you find yourself in Number Three, why don't you get involved and try to change it to something more to your liking?"

Roger let out a breath. "All right then, what happens if I run against you? I might as well while I'm waiting. What happens physically if I win?"

"You're the boss."

"Number One is the boss," Roger corrected, "your post is that of a figurehead."

"If you win Number One will no longer be a mystery to you," Number Two smiled predatorily as he led Roger back inside. "In the meantime let me introduce you and we'll see how you feel once you meet the voters."

"This I've got to see," Roger rolled his eyes. This had to be a diversion to keep him from escaping, but if he could find out who the real power players in the Union were perhaps it would be time well spent.

The jovial little man led Roger through the crowd to one of the golf cart style taxis that seemed to be the main transportation system in the Union and took Roger to the village central square. The crowd of enthusiastic Unionists followed, firmly in the grip of pre-election hysteria. The noisy and colorful procession moved to the rhythm of deafening brass band music was in striking contrast to the somber and enigmatic figure of the black clad elderly butler who followed the crowd without saying a word. Was he following the crowd or simply going somewhere, and if so where?

In the meantime the short and jovial Number Two stood on a platform and addressed the crowd through a megaphone. "Good people of our community…"

He was interrupted by frenzied applause. But Roger noticed that the Unionist's 'spontaneous' cries were in fact being read from a cue card being held aloft by the woman with the blonde curls and the maid's uniform called Number Twelve.

"Recently there has been a lack of opposition in the matter of free elections," Number Two's booming voice boomed even louder. "This is not good for our community and reflects an acceptance of things as they are. We know what we must do. What must we do?"

"Progress! Progress! Progress!" the frenzied crowd chanted, exactly as Number Twelve's billboard directed them to. To top it off they held signs with Number Two's number and portrait. The election signs appeared mass produced.

"Exactly!" Number Two acknowledged as the crowd became suddenly silent. "We are, however, fortunate in having with us a recent recruit, whose outlook is particularly militant and individualistic! Let us hope that he does not deny his responsibility to the community be refusing to take up the challenge! Good people, fellow citizens, may I be the first to introduce, my opposing candidate, the one, the only, Number Three!"

Roger was handed a megaphone as stepped forward and waited until the 'spontaneous' applause had died away before speaking. Unlike his shorter rival he was not given a platform to stand on, but he was still at eye level with Number Two. "I am not a number; I am a person," he began.

His speech was interrupted by the crowd's great burst of laughter. Nonetheless Roger persevered in hopes of reaching someone who was in a similar position as he was. He couldn't be the only person subjected to this; the Union had to do this all the time. Half of their citizens were probably kidnapped from Paradigm City.

"In some place, in some time, some if not all of you held positions of a secret or important nature, or somehow got Memories that was invaluable to a government or conspiracy," he announced through the megaphone. "Like me, you are here to have that knowledge protected or extracted.

"That's the stuff," Number Two nodded conspiratorially.

"Unlike me, many of you have accepted the situation of your imprisonment and will die here like rotten cabbages."

"Keep going; they love it!" Number Two hissed.

"The rest of you have gone over to the side of our keepers. Which is which? How many of each? Who's standing beside you now? I intend to discover who are the prisoners and who are the warders. I shall be running for Office in this election!"

"Good people, let us applaud a citizen of character!" Number Two boomed through his megaphone. "May the better man win and a big hand for Number Three! Be seeing you!"

The crowd at once obliged, cheering all the louder and brandishing placards emblazoned with Number Two's portrait. Suddenly, to his great astonishment, Roger saw other placards, ones that were bearing his own portrait and the words 'Vote for No. 3 in large letters.

* * *

On a desk filled with hourglasses a phone rings. Roger's hand picks up the receiver and a sinister voice says:

 _Next: Free For All_


End file.
